Took: A Ghost Story

From School Library Journal Gr 4–7—When Daniel's father loses his job as an executive, his family is forced to move from their comfortable Connecticut home to a run-down house in Brewster's Hill, MA. As if moving to a dilapidated house and leaving behind all his friends is not enough, no one in Brewster's Hill will speak to Daniel or his little sister Erica, except to tell them scary stories about a girl who disappeared from their house and an old witch who haunts the woods with her monster Bloody Bones. Thankfully, Daniel and Erica have each other, and they do their best to ignore the cruel taunting. However Erica begins to withdraw, acting strange and constantly talking to her doll, before she disappears leaving Daniel to rescue her and keep his family from falling apart. Hahn is a master of horror stories, and this is no exception. The story is told mostly from Daniel's point of view but Hahn offers occasional glimpses into the ghost witch Old Auntie's viewpoint, and this helps to build tension. The tone is eerie and ominous, and enhances the pervading spookiness. Bloody Bones' description is haunting and readers will be scared stiff. VERDICT Horror fans and readers looking for a good scare will enjoy this creepy tale.—Ellen Norton, Naperville Public Library, Naperville, IL "Horror fans and readers looking for a good scare will enjoy this creepy tale." — School Library Journal "Satisfyingly frightening." —Publishers Weekly "Hahn successfully reworks the recipe for those who still enjoy a good scare...a compelling addition to the Hahn collection of ghost stories." —VOYA "This creepy tale skillfully weaves in—and honors—the oral tradition of folklore, legends, and ghost stories." — Horn Book Magazine "Stalwart young readers who brave Daniel's telling are rewarded with a resolution that blends the mystical with the hopeful and creates community where once only fear and sorrow thrived." — Booklist Mary Downing Hahn , a former children’s librarian, is the award-winning author of many popular ghost stories. An avid reader, traveler, and all-around arts lover, Ms. Hahn lives in Columbia, Maryland.xa0Visit her online at www.marydowninghahnbooks.com. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. The Beginning The old woman stands on the hilltop, just on the edge of the woods, well hidden from the farmhouse below. Two men and a woman are getting out of a car that has a sign for Jack Lingo Realty painted on the side. The old woman has seen plenty of Realtors in her time. She doesn’t know this one, but she remembers his pa, old Jack Lingo, and his pa, Edward, and the one afore him, back and back through the years to the first Lingo ever to settle in this valley and take up the buying and selling of houses. xa0 Though young Lingo doesn’t know it, Auntie is helping him sell that house to the man and the woman in the only way she knows—muttering and humming and moving her hands this way and that way, weaving spells in the air, sending messages as she’s always done. Messages that make folks need things not worth needing. Dangerous things. Things they regret getting. xa0 You might wonder why Auntie wants this man and woman to buy the house. Truth to tell, she doesn’t give a hoot about them. They’re ignorant fools, but they have something she wants, and she aims to get it. It’s almost time for the change, and they’ve come on schedule, just as she’d known they would. xa0 “New for old,” she chants to herself. “Strong for weak, healthy for sickly, pretty for ugly.” xa0 When the man and the woman follow young Lingo into the old Estes house, Auntie sways back and forth, grinning and rubbing her dry, bony hands together. Her skirt blows in the wind, and long strands of white hair whip around her face. With a little hop and a jig, she turns to something hidden in the trees behind her. “Won’t be long now, my boy. We’ll get rid of the old pet and get us a new one to raise up.” xa0 Though he stays out of sight, her companion makes a noise like a hog when it’s hungry—a squealing sort of snort that might be a laugh, or it might be something else altogether. xa0 Auntie gazes down at the rundown farmhouse and outbuildings, the overgrown fields, the woods creeping closer year by year. From the hill, she can see the missing shingles in the roof, the warped boards riddled with termites and dry rot, the cracks in the chimney. xa0 Almost fifty years have passed since the Estes family left the place. Nobody has lived there since then. Local folk avoid the place. They scare their children with stories about the girl, the one before her, and the one before her, back and back to the very first girl. Fear keeps them out of the woods and away from the cabin on Brewster’s Hill. Those children know all about Auntie and her companion. xa0 But newcomers always show up, city people who’ve never heard the stories. If the valley folk try to warn them, they scoff and laugh and call the stories superstitious nonsense. They come from places where lights burn all night. They don’t heed the dark and what hides there. xa0 It all works to Auntie’s advantage. xa0 Down below, a door opens, and Auntie watches young Lingo lead the man and woman outside. Even though they speak softly, Auntie hears every word. They aim to buy that tumbledown wreck of a house, fix it up, and live there with their children, a boy and a girl, they tell him. It’s just what they want—a chance to get away from their old life and start anew in the country. They’ll get some chickens, they say, a couple of goats, maybe even a cow or a sheep. They’ll plant a garden, grow their own food. xa0 The man and the woman get into the Realtor’s car, laughing, excited. Auntie spits into the dirt. Fools. They’ll find out soon enough. xa0 She listens to the car’s engine until she can’t hear it anymore. Then she snaps her fingers and does another jig. “It’s falling into place just like I predicted, dear boy, but don’t you say a word to her back at the cottage. She ain’t to know till it happens.” xa0 Her companion snorts and squeals, and the two of them disappear into the dark woods. xa0 To wait. One It was a long drive from Fairfield, Connecticut, to Woodville, West Virginia—two days, with an overnight stay in Maryland. My sister, Erica, and I were sick of the back seat, sick of each other, and mad at our parents for making us leave our home, our school, and our friends. xa0 Had they asked us how we felt about moving? Of course not. They’ve never been the kind of parents who ask if you want to drink your milk from the red glass or the blue glass. They just hand you a glass, and that’s that. Milk tastes the same whether the glass is blue or red or purple. xa0 Going to West Virginia was a big thing, something we should have had a say in, but no. They left us with a neighbor, drove down there, found a house they liked, and bought it. Just like that. xa0 They were the grownups, the adults, the parents. They were in charge. They made the decisions. xa0 In all fairness, they had a reason for what they did. Dad worked for a big corporation. He earned a big salary. We had a big house, two big cars, and all sorts of other big stuff—expensive stuff. Erica and I went to private school. Mom didn’t work. She was what’s called a soccer mom, driving me and Erica and our friends to games and clubs and the country club pool. She and Dad played golf. They were planning to buy a sailboat. xa0 But then the recession came along, and the big corporation started laying people off. Dad was one of them. He thought he’d find another job fast, but he didn’t. A year went by. One of our big cars was repossessed. Erica and I went to public school. We gave up the country club. There was no more talk about sailboats. xa0 The bank started sending letters. Credit card companies called. Dad and Mom were maxed out financially. The mortgage company threatened foreclosure. xa0 So we had to sell the house. I can understand that. But why did we have to move to West Virginia? It was cheaper to live there, Dad said. Erica and I would love it. So much space—woods and fields and mountains. He took to singing “Country Roads,” an old John Denver song about West Virginia, putting lots of emphasis on “Almost heaven, West Virginia.” He also informed us that the license plates said “Wild, Wonderful.” xa0 So here we were, on an interstate highway, with nothing to see but mountains and woods, wild but not wonderful, in my opinion. It was like being in a foreign country. How would I ever get used to all the nature surrounding us? xa0 Beside me, Erica was talking to the doll Mom had given her—not because it was her birthday or anything, but because she was so unhappy about leaving Fairfield. xa0 That’s rewarding bad behavior, if you ask me. I was just as unhappy as my sister, but since I didn’t cry myself to sleep and mope in my room and refuse to eat, all I got was a pair of binoculars and Peterson’s Field Guide to Birds of North America . Dad thought I might like to identify the birds we were sure to see when we went hiking. Well, maybe I would, but still, that doll was ten times more expensive than my binoculars. It came with a little trunk full of clothes. There were even outfits in my sister’s size so she and the doll could dress alike. It had its own bed, too. And its hair was red just like Erica’s and cut the same way. xa0 All the time we were in the van, Erica talked to the doll. She tried all its clothes on and told the doll how pretty it was. She hugged it and kissed it. She even named it Little Erica. xa0 It was making me sick. But every time I complained, Erica got mad and we started quarreling and Mom turned around and blamed it all on me. “Leave your sister alone, Daniel,” she’d say. “She’s perfectly happy playing with Little Erica. Read a book or something.” xa0 “You know I can’t read in the car. Do you want me to barf all over that stupid doll?” xa0 At last we turned off the interstate. The roads narrowed and ran up and down hills, crossed fields, passed farms, and tunneled through woods. We glimpsed mountains and swift rivers. The towns were farther apart and smaller, some no more than a strip of houses and shops along the road. xa0 xa0 By the time Dad finally pulled off an unpaved road and headed down a narrow driveway, the woods around us were dark. In the van’s headlights the trees looked like a stage set lit by spotlights. xa0 The van bounced over ruts and bumps, tossing Erica and me toward and away from each other. “Stay on your side, Daniel,” Erica said, “and stop banging into me and Little Erica. We don’t like it.” xa0 “That doll doesn’t care—she’s not real.” xa0 “She is so!” xa0 “Be quiet, Daniel,” Mom said. xa0 “It’s not my fault,” I said. “Instead of blaming me, tell Dad to slow down.” xa0 Just then we came out of the woods, and I got my first view of the house. It stood in the middle of a field of tall grass—weeds, actually. Even in the dark I could see that the place was a wreck. The porch sagged under the weight of vines growing up the walls and across the roof. Tall, shaggy bushes blocked most of the windows on the first floor. Shutters hung crooked. Some were missing altogether. I was sure it hadn’t been painted for a long time. xa0 Erica was the first to speak. “It’s scary.” xa0 “What’s scary about it?” Dad asked. xa0 “It’s dark.” She hugged her doll tightly. “The woods are scary, too. And there aren’t any other houses.” xa0 “Wait until morning, Erica,” Mom said. “It’s lovely in the daylight. You’ll see.” xa0 “And we have a few neighbors down the road,” Dad added. xa0 How far down the road? I wondered. And what were they like? xa0 Dad and Mom got out of the van and headed toward the house. Erica ran to catch up and slipped her hand into Mom’s. I followed them, breathing in the unfamiliar smell of the woods and listening to night sounds. Wind rattled branches and hissed through the weeds in the field. A shutter banged against the side of the house. An owl called from the woods. xa0 At the same moment, something made the hair on my neck rise. Sure that someone was watching us, I turned around and stared down the dark driveway. I saw no one, but I shivered—and not because I was cold. Read more